The Just
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: King Edmund is called the Just long before Susan is called the Gentle. Lucy doesn't become the Valiant Queen until she's at sixteen, and Peter isn't Magnificent until the very end of their reign. But Edmund is the Just within a month of their coronation. It starts with a trial.
1. Part One

Within a month, there are whispers about King Edmund floating around Cair Paravel. Not the ones about the White Witch and her special pet who sold out his family for sweets, though _those _whispers hang around until the very last days of his reign; these were whispers of an entirely different nature.

King Edmund is called the Just long before Susan is called the Gentle. Lucy doesn't become the Valiant Queen until she's at sixteen, and Peter isn't Magnificent until the very end of their reign. But Edmund is the Just within a month of their coronation.

It starts with the trial of all the captured soldiers on the Witch's side two weeks after Aslan leaves. Peter squirms uncomfortably in his throne as he listens to their testimonies and the advice of Narnia elders. Edmund is only nine, but he sits still and grim. He lets it all sink in, and when they're finally alone, Peter turns to his brother and asks, "What _are_ we to do, Ed?"

Edmund bites his lip and thinks about it for a moment. He thinks of Aslan's golden mane and velvet paws, of his ferocious roaring voice, and his rough tongue against Edmund's face. Edmund sighs. "Those who acted or spoke violently towards us ought to be exiled," he says at last. "The rest should be released."

"And if they prove to be treacherous?"

"It's surprising what an act of mercy does to a person," Edmund says. "And, make it clear that there will be no second trial, should they try and turn against us."

The decision doesn't make either of them very popular at first. Edmund is thought to be sympathizing with the enemy, but he keeps his head held high, and he tries not to listen to the scathing rumors and whispers that follow him down the halls. Eventually, the Narnians stop criticizing him and start praising him. "That's a boy who learns," they say. "A _true_ follower of Aslan."

A month and a half into their reign, they get wind of a group of the Witch's loyal supporters rising up in the deep, wild parts of the Lantern Waste. Peter and Edmund head out with one hundred men at once. Peter wants to take more, but Edmund is very firm on this matter. He doesn't know why, but he tells Peter that he has a bad feeling. One hundred soldiers is a lot of men, and if they take more, they could be seen as threatening innocent Narnians for their past mistakes. Peter scoffs at the idea that a group of rebels in the wildest parts of Narnia could be innocent, but he agrees on one hundred. They leave early on a Sunday morning, before the sun is up. On Tuesday afternoon, Peter and Edmund meet one-hundred-and-fifty Fell Beasts in battle.

The battle is not out in the open, as their first battle had been, but among the densest trees. Peter and Edmund's one hundred Narnians are not prepared for the Beasts' attack in the woods, and these rebels don't fight fair. The battle carries on well into the night, and Peter says they have to pull out. Edmund thinks there is no chance of escape.

"I wanted to bring more men," Peter reminds Edmund bitingly, and it's all Edmund can do to stop from getting at it with Peter. It's early Friday morning and they're in their tent. There's about three or four of these tents clustered tightly together surrounded by a tiny, hurriedly made wall. It's not doing as such a great job keeping enemies out as they had hoped, and no one has had much more than six hours of sleep total in the past couple of days. Edmund won't be ten for another three weeks and he's running on two hours of sleep, and Peter is glaring at him like he used to, back in England when Edmund did something to upset Mum. Edmund is s sore and miserable, and he knows he made a mistake insisting that _less_ was _more_, and he has no right getting angry at Peter at a time like this, but he can't help.

He also can't help thinking they won't escape if they retreat now. They'll be in more danger, _he knows it._

"We can't go on like this, Ed," Peter insists. "We have to get out of here."

"We'll all be killed, Peter. Aren't you listening?"

"We'll all be killed if we _stay_, Edmund!" Peter says. He raises his voice a little, and he called Edmund by his full name."Edmund," not just "Ed." Two whole syllables. Peter is tired too, and people keep asking him questions. Everyone is turning to their kings to find out what their next course of action will be. Especially since the last wave of attacks. Last night, the Fell Beasts got a hold of a huge chunk of their rations. No one is coming until Sunday at the earliest. They'll come with more men and more supplies, but they haven't been able to get word to Cair that they need reinforcements now. All the messengers have been eaten. Edmund thinks they can stick it out. Peter doesn't think they'll last that long. He hasn't given anyone an answer, and it's a bad thing to lose the faith of the people a month and a half into ones reign. "We have to try to get out of this wood, at least. Draw them out into the open." He drags a tired hand over his tired face and stares at the map of Narnia unfurled in front of his feet.

"They'll pick us off in a retreat, Peter. If we move, they'll trap us," Edmund tells him.

"We're trapped now!"

"Peter, listen to me!"

"_Why_?"he asks. "How do you _know_?" Peter throws his hands up in the air.

"What?"

"How do you know that's what's going to happen, Ed?" Peter demands. "How do you know that they'll ambush us in a retreat?"

"Because…" Edmund stutters. "I –I don't know! It's just a feeling." Edmund's turning very red, and he doesn't know if it's from anger or frustration or embarrassment.

Peter laughs, short, sharp, unfriendly, and Edmund can feel his own defenses going up. Blood pounds through his head and his throat tightens up. He clenches his fists and bites his lip so hard he breaks the skin and tastes his own blood in his mouth. _"A feeling?" _Peter laughs again. "God, Edmund, it's because you had a feeling why we're stuck out here in the first place. It's because of your feelings that these creatures aren't dead. Dammit, Ed, it's a feeling why you went over and left us for the Witch in the first place!"

There's only two other people with them –the centaur, Orieus, and a panther named Inad. They both grow very still and the air stops circulating in the tent right at the end of Peter's last word. It seems like hours before Inad says in her deep, velvety voice, "General Orieus, the sun is nearly up," and slinks out of the tent to attend to her duties. It's even longer before Orieus stamps a hoof and leaves them alone.

Neither of them have much to say now. They're stuck in a familiar dance and neither of them wants to be the one to bow out first. But Edmund's much younger and much more tired than Peter, and he's been think the same thing since the first attack two and a half days ago. He feels like crying but he's not going to. He feels screaming and hitting and punching but he's not going to do that either.

"That's not _fair_, Peter," he says after some time. "That's so unfair."

"I'm not being fair, Edmund," Peter says. It's his whole name again, two syllables, three times in one conversation. Peter's mad at him. Peter's really mad at him, and try as he might, Edmund can feel himself getting angry too. "People are dying because of your calls! When is it going to stop?"

"You asked for my help!" Edmund sputters. "You asked me! It's not fair!"

"Yeah, well, being fair is your department isn't it, Edmund?" Peter's drawing himself up to his full height in a way Edmund can't stand, that takes Edmund back to England and the air raids and before he met Aslan. His chest constricts. "Those nice things all the Narnians say about you, if we make it out of here alive, they won't be saying them in anymore." Edmund's eyes begin to sting and his face twists into a nasty scowl, but Peter ignores him. "We're leaving at midday, and that's final. Get some sleep if you can."

Peter leaves the tent, the canvas flapping angrily after him.


	2. Part Two

Edmund doesn't even try to get any sleep. They leave at midday, during a break between attacks, but they've only moved a couple hundred of meters when their brief reprieve comes to an end. A shower of arrows rains down upon them from the trees. A few of their birds fly high above the tree tops and the squirrels and other animals scamper into the branches as soon as the first arrow is fired, but the smaller ones are tossed down to the ground. Some of them squeak when they hit and roll over. They skitter away under the many hooves and claws and feet of the tired, trampled Narnian army, but others lay broken at the foot of the tree they were thrown out of, limp, lifeless, and bloody. A couple of the fallen land on Narnian heads.

Orieus and Inad are in the lead and they don't stop, pretending that leaving their dead behind to rot or be defiled doesn't bother them. Peter and Edmund are in the rear. Their tired, human-child legs can barely manage to keep up, but Peter calls up to his soldiers trudging dutifully along, "To the Stone Table! Out to the open! They're not prepared for war in open space!" Their young king's voice at their backs seems to keep the Narnians' spirits up, and their feet marching along that same path Peter and his sisters took during a winter not yet forgotten.

It doesn't do much for Edmund, though. He never realized how much shorter he was than Peter. Every couple of minutes, Peter's hand finds its way to Edmund's shoulder, pushing him forward so he keeps up. Edmund's too tired to mind.

"You were right," Edmund says at one point. They've been marching for hours now. They daren't stop lest they are ambushed. Peter is worried about ambush now too. He's watching the skies and the trees vigilantly, while keeping his hand on Edmund. To make sure he doesn't get lost, he tells himself. "This is my fault."

"You weren't wrong, Ed," Peter promises. "Just…I dunno, ill-advised. Your heart was in the right place." Edmund doesn't answer. He's half asleep, letting the pressure of Peter's hand on his shoulder guide him, weighed down by hot armor in the humid summer afternoon. "Did you sleep at all?" Edmund shakes his head. Peter looks back up at the trees. "We'll stop soon," he promises. "Once the sun starts to set."

They stop as soon as it's dark, in the same glade they had left behind hardly two months earlier. The outline of the Stone Table itself is visible from where they pitch their camp. It takes less than an hour for the Narnians to get settled. Their camp is sturdier than it was in the woods. There are no trees hiding enemies, and they can see at least a mile away from here, up on the hill of the Stone Table.

Edmund and Peter set up their tent closest to the Table. They sit in silence inside the tent in the darkness, both pretending that they are asleep. Edmund, who had been so tired on the way over, is now wide awake. The Stone Table casts a shadow inside the tent, and Edmund feels every inch of it that falls on him, like it's pricking him from the inside out.

A second shadow falls across Edmund's face. It's moving, but it's not the confident trotting of Orieus or the unabashed prowling of Inad. It's different, lurking. Edmund shudders and looks over to Peter, and considers waking him up.

And then what? he wonders. Tell him that he's got a bad feeling? That he's afraid of the dark? Peter will laugh. Peter's already mad at him. Peter's already got enough reason to be mad at him.

It's not until the shadow passes his tent a second time, slower, silent, and menacing, he wakes him up anyway. Peter sits up. "Go back to sleep, Ed," Peter groans, rubbing his eyes. "We don't know what's going to be waiting for us in the morning."

He wants to tell Peter of the shadow that couldn't be any Narnian, but he can't make it seem like it's nothing more than a nightmare. Maybe it is nothing more than a nightmare. He stares at the inside walls of the tent, biting his lip. "I can't sleep," Edmund admits instead. It's true, maybe truer than Edmund thinks.

Peter groans again. "You were the one falling asleep on the march, Ed."

"I – I know, Peter, but –" Edmund breaks off, and looks at his hands. "I can't sleep now. I thought I _saw_ something." The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and his heart stops, waiting for his brother's reaction.

Even in the dark, Edmund can see Peter purse his lips, forcing himself not to say the same things he had said earlier. "What did you see, Edmund?" Peter asks with a great amount of purpose.

"_I don't know_." Peter sighs. "I don't know!" Edmund insists. "A shadow!"

"You saw a shadow?" Peter repeats impatiently. "In the dark?"

"Not a familiar shadow, Peter," Edmund says as calmly as he can manage, but he's getting angry. "Not, like, Orieus's shadow."

There's a long pause in which Peter looks over Edmund's shoulder at the shadow of the Stone Table, and Edmund bites his lip so hard he begins to break skin. They're both waiting, anticipating something, anything. For Edmund to lash out and explain himself, or for Peter to tell Edmund he's wrong, force him to go back to bed. But even though they're both so young, they're both trying very hard to make up, and it's not easy to do when they fall back into their old routine, just as they had this morning.

Finally, Peter sighs again and says, "It could be anything, Ed," tiredly, choosing each word carefully, like the wrong word might set his brother off, and for all Edmund knows, it might. But Peter's not nearly as good at choosing his words as Edmund is.

"That's the problem," Edmund says. "It could be _anything." _

A stillness falls over the tent, and just like earlier, the shadow does too, and Peter thinks he sees it then. It's not the silhouette of someone familiar, and although it doesn't mean it's necessarily malicious –it could just be a cloud for all either of them know –Peter can't help but stop breathing for a second when he realizes that Edmund's right; it could be anything.

"I'll go check it out, then," Peter says after a long pause. "It's the only thing one can do." He stands up and grabs Rhindon, hooking it around his waist. "I'll be right back." He heads towards the flap of the tent, patting Edmund on the shoulder as he passes.

"I'll be coming with you," Edmund insists, standing up.

"No," Peter says, stopping, turning, and pushing hard on Edmund's shoulders so that he sits back down in his hammock. It sways beneath him, back and forth, and as it comes towards him, Peter's surprised that Edmund doesn't leap up from it and pounce on top of him. But he doesn't. He just sits, swinging back and forth, back and forth.

"Why not?"

Peter rolls his eyes; Peter's whole body moves when he rolls his eyes, and Edmund wonders if Peter's exaggerating the movement because it's dark. "Because you need to sleep," he answers, and ignores any other protests that come from Edmund's direction.

Outside of the tent, there's nothing but darkness, and trees, and a couple of stars. There's the soft pad of tired footsteps and the quiet concerned voices of Narnians that seem rather far away to Peter. There's the occasional pop of the fire, but other than that, it's quiet and still. Peter turns to go back into the tent. He can see Edmund's shadow against the canvas lining, waiting attentively for him.

Then, he's hit hard from behind. He cries out in pain, and the entire Narnian army seems to rush to his side in a massive, frothy wave, Edmund at their lead, crying out, "Peter! Peter!"

Peter gets up, a little dizzy. At his back is a wolf, a huge, nasty, gray wolf, with bright yellow eyes that glint off the fire light eerily. It growls at Peter, but Peter bares his teeth and draws his sword. The distinct sound of scraping metal amongst the clamor that has erupted around them comes from Peter's right. There stands Edmund, panting, his arm sagging a little from the weight of the sword in his hand, his armor thrown on his body lopsided, but he's mirroring Peter's stance and expression, and Peter is mirroring Aslan's the best he can.

"Are you okay?" Edmund asks Peter. Peter nods. They both stand, watching the wolf growl and spit. Tension builds in its back legs and then releases as he considers his options. He doesn't seem to have any. He looks around, but he can't find anything that will help him. The uproar that was so loud just moments ago settles to a low rumble, every soldier watching the wolf with trepidation, until Edmund sucks in a sharp little breath of air and gasps, "I don't want to alarm anyone." The entire army diverts their attention towards Edmund, who looks very, very young in his armor and sword and sweaty hair and cut up face. But he won't look away from the wolf, whose yellow eyes are darting around every crevice of the solid wall of Narnians around him, and Edmund's voice is perfectly still, and perfectly clear. "I don't want to alarm anyone," he repeats. "But I think our friend here isn't looking for a way out, but for _his _friends." The rumble grows into a quiet thunder but no one moves. Edmund tears his eyes off the wolf turns towards Orieus, who had come up two or three paces behind Peter.

Peter turns too. "Didn't you hear him?" he asks. "They're in the camp!"

The understanding breaks upon the mob like a crack of lightning, and Orieus' booming voice is the only thing that keeps them from breaking into chaos, and once he has the army sorted, he takes the kings and the rogue wolf aside, closer to the Stone Table, rising menacingly before them in the dim fire and moonlight. For a heart stopping second as Orieus kicks the wolf another several feet towards the table, Edmund wonders if he's going to execute him there, and he almost speaks up, but they stop before he gets the chance.

"What is your name, Beast?" Orieus asks, but the wolf only snarls.

Peter is still gripping his sword and locks eyes with the wolf. "I am your king, and Orieus is my general," he growls. "You will answer us." His knuckles are turning white in the light against his sword. "What's your name?"

"Not for the nasty human ears of traitors and heathens," the wolf sneers. Peter tries to take a step closer to the wolf, but Orieus puts an arm out to stop him. He's panting, snarling just as wide as the wolf.

"I'm not a traitor," Peter says. Edmund's heart sinks.

"Very clever, king," the wolf laughs. "I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about your silent brother." Edmund doesn't move. He doesn't remember ever being able to move.

"Edmund's not a traitor, either," whispers Peter. No one moves or makes a sound, except the wolf, who lets out a gravelly laugh. There's the sound of battle a little ways off and the sound of the wolf laughing, but there's no other sounds.

Then, Edmund begins laughing too. He doesn't know why. It starts off in small, timid chuckles, with his eyes glued to the Stone Table the whole time, imagining Aslan walking up those steps with his head held high, letting the Witch sheer him, tie his great paws, stab a knife through his magnificent heart. His laughter grows a little louder, a little more confident. He remembers being tied so tight against the tree his mouth is still sore and burns from the gag in his mouth, and he's got scars from the rope permanently seared into his arms and legs. He imagines being thrown around, tied up just like that on the Stone Table. His laughter peals out over the wolf's, and Peter and Orieus look over at him. And then, he remembers the blinding pain of the Witch's wand going through him, piercing every organ it could find. He remembers being dead mere hours after he was saved.

His laughter rings throughout the whole camp, and for a moment, the fighting stops, so they can listen to the laughter of their Just King.

And then, Edmund takes a step towards the wolf, closer than Peter had been aiming for just moments ago. There's death in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

"Wolf," Edmund says brightly. "I am a traitor, but you must be cleverer than that if you planned to attack my brother and get away with it." The wolf is silent. "What I mean is: that if you know anything at all, I'm so _glad_ in moments like this, that I was a traitor."

"Ed," Peter sighs. Edmund ignores him. He can't look away from the wolf, can't let him know that his heart is aching with every word he speaks.

"Turn around, wolf, just your head will do, if you try to run, my brother and my general will kill you," he promises. "Turn around and tell me what you see." The wolf turns his matted head and beholds the Stone Table, cracked, terrifying, vindictive. "What do you see, wolf?"

"A table I'm going to die on," he snarls at Edmund, and Edmund laughs again, sharp and bitter.

"No."

The wolf whips his head back around and snaps his jaw at Edmund. "What?"

"You will die," Edmund promises, taking another step closer. "But you will not die on that table."

"Ed…" Peter warns from behind him, but Orieus hasn't pulled Edmund back, so Edmund doesn't listen. This wolf must learn.

"That is the table Aslan died on, you remember," Edmund continues. This wolf must learn of what Aslan did, did not only for Edmund, but for his own mangy salvation as well. "When Aslan died on that Table, he died in my place. He died in the place of a traitor. He sacrificed himself on a table where traitors were sacrificed." Edmund takes another step forward, and even though his sword is dragging on the ground, the wolf backs up a step, his tail tucked under his legs. "He died for me, and he died for _you. _If this was the days of the Witch you fight for even still, she would have you up on that table without a second thought. You haven't betrayed her, but Narnia has spared your life, and you betrayed _Her_, and all traitors must perish." Edmund raises the tip of his sword a little, and a low whine escapes from somewhere deep within the wolf. "But not anymore. No one must die anymore, thanks to Aslan. And you went and threw that all away. I won't kill you on the Table, because you aren't _worth _it." Edmund brings up the sword a little higher, and brings it down upon the wolf.

There are three voices of protest, two terrified, one solemn and understanding.

"Your Majesty," Orieus repeats. "Clean your sword." It's an echo of the words Aslan said to Peter when he first killed the wolf, Maugrim, but Edmund doesn't know that.

Edmund turns away from the wolf's body, biting his lip, and wipes his sword clumsily on the grass. Orieus picks up the lifeless body and carries it gingerly.

Peter grabs Edmund roughly by his collar. "Come on, Ed," he says, shoving him forward, but he clings onto Edmund's arm as he propels them both towards the camp and the fighting, which is dying down now. Peter's hands are shaking just a little.

"Peter," Edmund says at last before they're in the dim light of the camp. His voice is low and hoarse. "Peter."

"Not now, Ed, okay," Peter says shortly. He sniffs anxiously. "_Christ_, Ed, not now."

"Why not now?"

"Edmund, please," Peter begs. Edmund stops, gnawing on his lip even harder now. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, from where his lip has split, or maybe it's the wolf's blood, from when he killed him. He doesn't know, and it makes him feel a little light headed thinking about whose blood he's got in his mouth, so he stops, sticking his bottom lip out as far as possible so he can't taste wonder about it any longer.

They step into the camp, and everyone stops when the kings, one of them dragged by his brother, and their general, carrying a lifeless body, step into the light. Orieus places the body on the ground at his feet and Edmund breaks free of Peter's grasp.

"Here is the body of your comrade, Beasts," he announces, and his young voice carries out in a weighty ring across the camp. "Know that this is what happens to those who attack the crown. Those captured tonight will not be returned, but flee now, and you escape with your filthy lives, and the body of a soldier, and that is all we can do for you."

One timid looking black dwarf emerges from the throng of Fell Beasts to retrieve the body. His beard is matted with leaves and blood and dirt and sweat, and his proud eyes glint up suspiciously at Edmund. He stops at the body, watching him closely. "You are vile," the dwarf spits. Peter tenses behind him, but Edmund smiles.

"So are you," he says. Edmund has been a bully long enough to know that both of those things are true. "And if you ever try to move against the crown again, it will be the last thing you or any of your soldiers do. I'm not kidding." The camp is so quiet, everyone can hear. No one seems to breathing. "It's more chances than you deserve."

The dwarf spits at Edmund's feet, and Edmund smiles wider. His face hurts from smiling so much. The dwarf drags the body of the wolf away, and they all stand there waiting as the Beasts' army disperses. For now, at least, they know they can go home.

When the camp is silent, the Narnians start moving again. There's always much to be done after a battle, but this time, the two young kings were told to go to bed, for as soon as the camp began to stir Edmund collapsed, right into Peter's arms, and he began to sob.


	3. Part Three

A/N: Thank you guys for bearing with me while I tried to get this up. I think I originally promised this sometime in mid-November ?. Either way, thanks, and I hope everyone had a great holiday season!

* * *

Edmund wakes up with a pounding headache and an older brother watching over him closely. The flaps of their tent are open and dusty rays of sunlight are pouring inside. It must be mid-morning by now, but Edmund doesn't remember falling asleep.

He rolls over to look at Peter, but the second their eyes meet Peter gets up and starts pacing around the tent. "I wrote to Susan and Lucy this morning," he says without looking at Edmund. "We're not far out, so they'll probably get it by late tonight. I said we were both all right and heading home, and that the Rebellion was successfully put down." Peter stops to give Edmund a strange look and shakes his head. He continues pacing. "And that we should be in by the day after tomorrow." He glances at Edmund quickly again. He hasn't met his brother's eyes yet; he looks away just as quickly. "There are several things we must do here first, though," he says. Peter stops pacing at last. . "We _did _take several prisoners last night, Ed," he says quietly. His whole manner has changed, and for the first time since last night, he willingly looks his brother in the face. "What exactly _were _you planning on doing with them? We can't exactly hand them back, not after your display of power."

"I –" Edmund starts. He doesn't know what else to say. He was planning on executing them, but it doesn't feel as right as it did last night, and the twinge in his heart has more to do with that than the way Peter's face falls in disappointment when he realizes what Edmund wanted.

"You're absolutely bathing in blood right now, Edmund," Peter mutters, dragging his hand over his face, dragging out Edmund's name. "Well," he says, clearing his throat. "Oreius thinks we ought to. Oreius also thought we should have killed _you,_ though…." Edmund swallows and looks down, away from Peter.

"Can we take them back to Cair?" Edmund wonders in a small voice, biting his bottom lip anxiously. "We can…we can attempt to give them a fair trial…and…." Edmund looks back up at Peter, whose staring down at Edmund sternly.

"We'll be trying a lot of the same people as before," Peter reminds him. "From the ones we tried after the Battle of Beruna. We'll be forced to execute _them_. We said we would do as much."

Edmund nods, his eyes stinging. "So we have no choice," he says quietly. "They must be killed, all of them."

Peter sits down next to Edmund. "We'll do it here, so Susan and Lucy don't have to watch." Peter squeezes Edmund's shoulder. "Are you going to come?"

"Do I have to?" Edmund wonders. He washed off all of the wolf's blood last night, but it feels like it's still all over him, on his hands, on his face, in his mouth. He feels queasy thinking about it and all the other Beasts he's condemned, but it's his ruling to save Peter's life. The blood is on his hands regardless, and he knows that he has to.

But Peter is his King, and if Peter says he doesn't have to go, then he's not going.

"Sort of," Peter sighs, and Edmund's heart sinks. He nods and stands up. He exits the tent, Peter following close behind him, watching every step his brother takes.

The Narnians watch their pair of kings walking through their makeshift camp. They watch the Just King closely as he passes, and whispers follow him doggedly, just as always. They whisper about the blood in King Edmund's eyes as the corpse of the wolf was thrown at his feet, and the coldness of his hatred towards the dwarf who retrieved the body. They whisper that this boy, who has betrayed Narnia already, has too much blood on his hands to be the age his body betrays. Some whisper that King Edmund is fearless and wise. Others wonder if the boy is all there.

Edmund hears it all, and Peter hears it too. He reaches out in front of him and squeezes Edmund's shoulder. "Don't listen," he whispers. "Keep your head high."

"I'm trying," Edmund insists. "God, Peter, I'm trying."

Orieus waits for them a little past the camp with several other Narnians, Inad among them, closer towards the Stone Table. Edmund hears the whispers all the way there, even once the hissing Narnians have fallen way out of earshot. It's quiet but Edmund can hear them talk about him, their little Just King. It grows louder and louder as the Stone Table grows closer and closer.

Peter doesn't say anything to him.

It's much harder to keep four-legged Beasts with claws and teeth and horns contained in an open space than either Edmund or Peter had anticipated, but so many of the Narnians are so well-versed in keeping prisoners secure that Edmund and Peter hadn't realized it meant creative tying until they see them, at least twenty Beasts, squirming and hissing and screeching loudly when they see the boys coming towards them, all under Oreius's watchful eye.

"You're Majesties," Oreius says with a slight dip of his torso. "Have you decided?" Edmund nods, only half hearing what Oreius is saying to him. Peter takes a deep breath and turns to face the Beasts.

"You all have made a grave mistake," he says, with all the seriousness that a fourteen year old boy can muster. "We…we have spared the lives of your comrades," Peter stutters, his eyes flickering from Edmund to the shadow of the Table looming behind him. "But, today, your lives will end. Today is the last day you will ever threaten our country and innocent Narnian lives."

Peter swallows and turns his back on the Beasts. "Let's get this over with," he says quietly to Oreius. Oreius nods.

The boys line up on either side of Oreius. The Narnians bring each Beast up. Edmund announces their name and their crime loud enough so all the Narnians present and all of the Beasts can hear. Peter stands silent and stoic as Oreius takes his heavy sword and swings it down upon their neck in one, swift, clean blow. His sword never misses and it is not dull. Oreius strong and exact enough that he can do it in one stroke. "They will feel no pain," Oreius says. "They will be dead before they can register it."

It's still messy. Inad's paws are sticky with blood by the end, and Oreius has it in his hair on his lower half and on his hands. It smells putrid and the more bodies pile up, the stronger the odor becomes, until Edmund can barely open his mouth for the stench.

One last name, one last crime.

"Tirntail Regressor," he says. "You are being charged with crimes against the crown, for rebellion against Aslan and Narnia, and her High King, for attempting to assassinate the High King of Narnia, placed here by Aslan Himself, and for the violent support of the tyrant, The White Witch, Jadis." He looks at the Beast. It's a scrawny thing with batwings and teeth too huge for its body. It snarls up at Edmund. "Make your peace with Aslan, Beast," he says, and in his mind, there's venom behind the words, but he's too tired. It's the last one, and it's not fighting as hard as all the rest, not cursing Aslan and Narnia as much as the others, not praising Jadis and her winter at all.

"I will not," it snarls at Edmund. Edmund nods.

"Then you will burn," Edmund says. It's a left over sentiment from England, one of the things he heard the grownups saying, and he doesn't know much more than that, but he knows it makes the creature squirm in fear and anger and it's made them _all_ squirm. Oreius brings his sword down upon the little Beast. Edmund closes his eyes before it makes contact.

He keeps his eyes closed for a long time after that. The world is spinning beneath his feet, and he's afraid what will happen if he opens his eyes. He might faint or be sick, or he might not. He might stare at the pile of corpses he created and feel nothing, feel okay with the lives he ended.

Peter is staring at the bodies in horror. They're piled onto a funeral pyre, pre-built. They're going up in a huge, menacing plume of grizzly smoke. It smells like burning, rotten meat and Peter can't help but watch. Edmund is still standing with his eyes closed, and he gasps sharply to hide a sob. It's the only thing that can Peter rip his eyes away from the carnage in front of him.

"Ed…"he whispers, laying a hand gently on Edmund's shoulder. Edmund jumps startled, and he opens his eyes at last, but he still won't look at the pyre. "Are you all right?" Edmund nods. "We can go now," Peter says. He looks up at Oreius to make sure that they can, and Oreius bows.

Edmund nods again and wipes his eyes and nose. "Please," he says in a tiny voice and Peter leads him away from the funeral pyre and the grass soaked in blood.

They turn away and both of their eyes catch sight of the Stone Table. Peter keeps walking but Edmund lags behind, staring, transfixed by the sight of it.

"Ed…?" Peter calls. Edmund grunts in response. "Come on."

"Yeah," he says. Today, Edmund killed twenty beasts. They looked Edmund in the eye and called him a traitor. Some begged for their lives, to see their families again, and Edmund swallowed and told them that they were enemies of the State and of Aslan. There was nothing he could do. He had already shown them more mercy than they deserved. "I think…" He pauses and turns back around to face Peter. "You can go back," he says, scuffing his boot into the dirt. "You should go back. I'll be there soon. I just have to…" Edmund looks back up at the Stone Table. "Please."

Peter nods. He doesn't know what Edmund thinks he has to do, but Edmund looks like he's on an edge, teetering precariously between talking with Peter civilly and digging his heels in and throwing a fit until Peter has to let him stay. Peter doesn't know if Edmund, changed and quiet and grownup, will insist, the way he would have _before_, on staying, on staring at the Stone Table if Peter tells him to come back with him, but he doesn't want to find out. "Come back with Oreius, please," Peter says instead, and he turns away from his little brother and heads back to help the Narnians tear down the camp.

Edmund takes a hesitant step towards the Stone Table. It's the same as it was last night. Huge, looming, broken. He can see the crack more clearly now, see the rubble that's fallen off since it first broke. He walks slowly up the hill and imagines Lucy and Susan with their hands, numb with cold, struggling to untie Aslan, to set him free, imagines them burying their heads in Aslan's mane, crying_ "It's not fair. It's not fair, Aslan. Why did you have to die?" _

Aslan's great body lying lifeless on this rock, hardly more than a _stuffed _lion. His paws that held Edmund when he was first returned to his family, but without their ferocious claws and without their heavy weight that made Edmund remember he was alive. His mouth, red and terrible, that has gobbled up children and cities and worlds, but breathed warm breath onto Edmund and told him that he was saved, was closed forever. _Why did you have to die, Aslan? Why couldn't it have been me?_ He puts his foot on the bottom step of the Stone Table.

This is the placed Edmund was meant to die. When he was saved from the witch, Edmund shook and cried and Aslan placed his paw on Edmund's shoulder and breathed on him. _"Do you know who I am, Son of Adam?" he asked. _Edmund stopped shaking then, and he looked into Aslan's eyes. The Lion's breath was warm and sweet, and he welcomed whatever Aslan was going to do to him.

He stands upon the table at last, unsteadily across the crack, where Lucy and Susan cradled Aslan's magnificent head, and then he falls to his knees, rubs his hands against the rough stone. The rock is stained with spattered blood, but he can't be sure whose it is. Whether it's Aslan's or any one of the hundreds of traitors the witch killed here, like the ones Edmund killed today. He can't be sure.

"Aslan," he gasps at last. His hands are dirty from days of fighting and walking and from rubbing them in the dirt just now, but he lays his head in them anyway. "Oh, Aslan," he cries. He is crying real tears; real heartbroken sobs rack his tired, thin body. "I –I –I –" He falters, breaking down completely, and for several minutes that feel like hours and hours and hours, Edmund, lowered in the crevice created by the crack, remains crumpled upon the broken Stone Table.

At last, though, as he must, Edmund stops crying. Suddenly he's calm. He wipes his nose and eyes and looks up into the sky. The air around him is warm, and a breeze ruffles his hair gently. He stares into the sky, the sun shining brightly in his eyes.

He blinks.

When he opens his eyes again, Aslan is standing in front of him, shaking his golden mane. A deep purring noise is emanating from deep within Him. It's laughter, Edmund realizes. Serious sad laughter, and despite the rumble, there are tears in Aslan's eyes.

"Aslan," Edmund sighs. He reaches out and buries his hands in Aslan's mane. "Oh, Aslan!" Aslan doesn't make a sound or a move but to lick Edmund's tears away with his rough pink tongue.

"Why do you cry, Son of Adam?" Aslan asks Edmund at last. He lies down next to Edmund. His voice could move mountains, could set whole continents quaking from it. But now it is soft, hardly moves the air around him. Edmund's hands are still buried in Aslan's hair. He's not frightened, even if he should be. The deep voice that could destroy cities on its own speaks gently to him, as if Edmund were a kitten, fresh faced, newborn into the world.

"This is my fault, Aslan," Edmund says, clinging to the fur in Aslan's mane. It's thick and soft.

"What is your fault, Edmund?" Aslan wonders. Edmund looks into Aslan's eyes. He knows, Edmund can see it, but just as always, Aslan wants to know what Edmund _means_.

"The Narnians who have died," Edmund explains. "And…the others…the ones we killed today." Aslan doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Edmund it's not his fault. He doesn't tell Edmund it _is _his fault either. "Was it okay, Aslan? Have I…?" Edmund doesn't know how he wants to finish that question, and he hopes that Aslan doesn't make him.

"Have you what?" Aslan asks. Edmund looks away from him, his huge golden eyes and his beautiful tawny body and his ferocious red mouth. Aslan's great paws are resting against Edmund's legs. He can feel himself starting to cry again, and Aslan licks his face before he can.

"Have I…have I made a mistake?" Edmund asks Aslan. "Have I learned nothing?" He still doesn't look at Aslan.

Aslan doesn't answer. Instead he breathes deeply and purrs slightly. "Son of Adam," he says seriously. "King Edmund," he sighs. Edmund looks at him. "What would you have done instead?" Edmund shrugs. "Would you have killed all the traitors who you tried two months ago?" Aslan asks. Edmund shrugs again. "If you had, Edmund, then you would be right where you are now."

"Should I have let them live, Aslan?" Edmund asks desperately. "They came and they tried to kill Peter and they would have killed Susan and Lucy and me too, if they had the chance. They killed you. But should I have…should I have let them go again?" He's looking for Aslan to tell him off or to tell him that what he did was okay, but he receives neither from the Lion.

"It does not matter now, Edmund," Aslan says. "They are all dead, and they find no favor with me." Aslan looks at him sharply. "Son of Adam, why is that you spared them in the first place? Your brother is all fire and righteous rage. He would have killed them if not for you. When you tried the prisoners captured at Beruna, why did you let them live?"

"Because of you, Aslan," Edmund says. He takes his hands out of Aslan's mane at last. "Because I was no better than they were, but you let me live." The sun is high in the sky now. He can hear Oreius's voice booming loudly.

"Then Edmund," Aslan says seriously. "You _have_ learned. But you are young. Sometimes, you will make mistakes. Sometimes, being a king will be very difficult. But you have learned much, and you will learn so much more. You will be a good king, and they will call you the Just." Aslan stands up. Oreius's voice grows louder. "Even now, you were fair and you were merciful." Edmund stands now too, and Oreius appears at the foot of the Table. He bows at the sight of Aslan.

"Your Majesty," Oreius says. "Are you ready?"

Edmund looks back at Aslan. Oreius stares at Aslan too. Edmund sighs, brushing his hands through Aslan's mane one more time before he leaves his side. "Yes, Oreius," Edmund says, walking down to join him. Oreius bows to Aslan, and they both turn away. There's a warm breeze, and they don't need to look behind them to know that Aslan is gone.

* * *

A/N: an epilogue will be up tomorrow.


	4. Epilogue

They don't get home until the morning after they first expected, but at last, Cair Paravel approaches quickly over the horizon, gleaming in the rising sun on the sea. It looks, as always, like a star. Oreius sounds a horn to announce their arrival. Their surroundings brighten around them. Little sleepy animals poke their heads out of their holes to see what all the commotion is about. Some of them join the procession to Cair, jumping and prancing and singing.

Peter and Edmund can breathe easy at last.

The air is fresh and the grass is green. The darkness of the forest leaves hardly an impression on them as they make their way home. The sun is the bright early morning sun that Narnia always promises to them. The wind is sweet and carries the triumphant sound of Oreius' horn all the way to the castle, so that Susan and Lucy are already waiting at the front gate for their brothers when they are still a hundred yards off.

When she sees them, Lucy runs as fast as her little legs will carry her to the party of once-down trodden Narnians. Oreius is at the front and smiles at Lucy. For all his roughness, he is quite fond of his little queen. Susan follows close behind, all her usual properness forgotten inside the castle, bounding and leaping towards her brothers. Peter and Edmund break away from their ranks and collide with their girls. They wrap each other in an awkward, sweaty hug, crying and kissing each other until they're all tired out. Nothing is said for a long while. Just lots of hugs and kisses and hair-ruffling and hand holding until Susan says in a tiny voice overflowing with relief, "We thought you had died."

Peter laughs and kisses Susan on the cheek again and wraps her tightly in his arms. "We've missed you both so much," he sighs. Susan hugs him back.

The children don't go inside after the Narnians disperse, and before long they find themselves sitting in the grass outside the castle. They don't say much, at least about the ordeal. _Lucy_ has much to say. She talks of Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers, and of all the new Narnians she and Susan met. She also talks of Aslan.

Edmund looks up at the mention of the name. "I saw him," Edmund says suddenly without realizing it. His brother and sisters look at him.

"Really?" Peter asks. "When?"

"After the execution," Edmund says, twisting a clump of grass around his fingers and pulling it up by the roots. "At the Stone Table."

"What did he say?" Lucy wonders

"Execution?" Susan presses.

Edmund looks Lucy in the eyes. He shrugs. "Not much," Edmund says.

There's not much to say after that, but none of them really mind. They just sit and enjoy the sun and the grass. They're not too grown up yet that they can't enjoy sitting in the grass. Peter's not too magnificent, Susan not too gentle. Lucy, always valiant, did not have to be seen as such. And Edmund never grew out of things, not even in legends, the things that made him Just.


End file.
